Wasteland

Through terror-drenched and blind eyes,
I see naught but a vast echoing wasteland—
an endless leaden landscape of loneliness.
Hellish circlets of despair bind me securely
to
my
pain.

--Vanessa Sgroi, 2008

A deep and unforgiving absence of light surrounded him, smothered him. The rock solid bed beneath him offered no comfort—the darkness no reprieve. His only awareness at first was a vicious throbbing in his head and along his left side. Then slowly, a jumbled buzz of nonsense noise filled his ears—gradually sharpening and coalescing into a mixture of words, commands but none issued by a familiar or welcome voice.

Voice? Who's voice? Dad's? No, no not Dad. Sam? Sam's voice. Where was his voice? Where was he?

He twitched and shifted restlessly on the exam table and exhaled a soft moan.

Sam?

Cold air ghosted across his skin as his many layers fell away. Leaving him exposed and vulnerable. A multitude of hard, unforgiving fingers poked and prodded, igniting small fires of pain wherever they touched.

A deep voice came from somewhere above him. "Can you open your eyes for me?"

Dean heard the words but they held no sway. The relentless throbbing in his head was far more commandeering. His eyelids felt weighted and far too heavy to open. He sensed no payout in making an effort to comply, so he didn't.

"Open your eyes."

The command worked a little better, triggering a deeply ingrained learned response in the wounded hunter. Dean struggled to defy the seemingly invisible force cementing his leaden eyelids in place, managing to raise them to half mast for a second or two before allowing them to slam closed once more.

Dean battled with the gauzy curtain veiling coherent thought as his mind raced to assemble the pieces of this current, and painful, jigsaw puzzle.

Roughened fingertips pulled back his right eyelid and a lightning white beam seared through his skull. He tried to jerk away but was unsuccessful. When the procedure was repeated with his left eye, he gripped the sides of the bed, knuckles whitening as he fought back against sudden intense nausea.

Before Dean managed to come close to conquering it, the cloying, coppery scent of blood filled his nostrils and the internal sparring match instantly became a losing battle. His stomach muscles tightened viciously, and he gagged against the acidic bile surging up his esophagus.

"Roll him!" the same deep voice yelled.

Dean felt the hands turn him on his left side and just in time too. He unceremoniously began to heave, the vomit ejecting with such force it splattered hard against the floor quite a distance from the examination table. Involuntary tears leaked from the corners of his tightly-closed eyes and streaked down Dean's pale face, bisecting some of the bruises beginning to color the top edge of one cheek.

When the miserable retching ended, numerous hands resettled him, not ungently, on the table. Behind his closed lids, snapshots marred with copious amounts of crimson blood and stark expressions of pain filled Dean's confused mind.

Sammy? Oh, God. Sammy?

He squirmed restlessly on the exam table as one image tumbled into his mind and froze. His brother, pale and limp, bonelessly dropping to his knees in the cold Wyoming mud. His own hands covered in hot, viscous fluid as it spurted uncontrollably from a fatal wound. He opened his eyes halfway, squinting to try and bring the figures around him into focus.

NO! Sammy! No-no-no-no-no-no-no-no.

His shifting became more pronounced as his agitation ratcheted up.

"Sam?" his brother's name came out as a guttural half growl, half shout. "Saaammy! Noooo!"

A firm hand rested on his shoulder. "Sir, you need to calm down. Calm down. You're going to be all right. You're in the hospital."

More hands pushed at him, a rush of unfathomable words tumbled into his ears to be lost in the cacophonic distress swirling through his mind. Dean began to fight in earnest in a panic to find, to help, to save his brother. Dean arched his back and kicked out. His hands curled into fists, and he punched wildly into the air, pleased when he felt one of them connect.

Unfamiliar, unwelcome hands pushed down more determinedly and his anxiety skyrocketed accordingly.

"NO! NO! LEAVE ME ALONE! GET THE HELL AWAY FROM ME!"

SN SN SN

His brother's yelling immediately brought Sam to his feet and set him racing down the hallway to where he'd left his brother a short time ago. He pushed inside the cubicle and stopped dead at the sight that greeted his eyes.

A half dozen harried and harassed-looking medical personnel surrounded his brother who was fighting tooth-and-nail against them.

"Get the fuck off me! I need . . . I n-n-need to find . . . Sam!" Dean's yells had taken on a keening, pleading quality. "Saaaa-um!"

His back was arching off the bed as four of them attempted to hold down his flailing arms and legs. The remaining two had pulled out padded restraints and were in the process of attaching them.

Sam hurried forward. "No, wait!" His heart thudded painfully at the idea of his brother being restrained. He couldn't stand it.

The doctor's head whipped in his direction, a scowl darkening his face. "You shouldn't be in here," he snapped. His bottom lip was puffy and a thin trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth. It was obvious one of Dean's fists had connected. The muscles on the doctor's arms strained as pushed down on Dean's upper arm and elbow to hold it in place.

"Please—don't restrain him."

"For his safety and ours, I—"

Sam cut him off. "I understand. But please, I'm Sam—his brother. I'm who he's calling for. I think he'll calm down if you let me talk to him."

The doctor hesitated. The other medical personnel tightened the restraints around Dean's ankles, hobbling him.

"Please…"

The man finally nodded and motioned him forward but kept a firm hold on the man on the table as did the nurse across from him.

"Dean?"

His brother's eyes were rolling around in their sockets as they searched the room. His breathing was fast and harsh, his chest expanding and contracting in rapid pants. He was too incoherent with fear and dread and didn't immediately recognize or respond to Sam's voice.

"Dean, c'mon man, you need to calm down. I don't want them to have to keep you in restraints."

"Saaaa-um!" this was issued in a hoarse, desperate moan.

Sam reached out and laid a hand lightly on Dean's forehead. "Dean, it's okay. I'm right here, man. I'm right here."

Dean's entire body, tense and taut, quivered, muscles locked into place and still ready to continue the fight. Sam pressed his hand against his brother's forehead just a little harder. "See? I'm right here."

The touch and the words finally penetrated the veil of confusion and terror, and a shiver raced through Dean's body. He suddenly relaxed, every muscle loosening, and he stilled. Dean turned his head and squinted at the tall figure hovering over him.

"Sam?"

"Yeah, bro, it's me."

"Not…dead?"

The younger Winchester swallowed against the lump in his throat at his brother's relieved and hopeful tone. "No, no, I'm here—alive and well." He moved his hand from his older sibling's forehead to his hand, its fingers still curled in a tightly held fist. He gripped the fist tightly.

Dean's breathing hitched and slowed just a little.

"Dean, you need to let these people take care of you. Okay? You're in the hospital and they're gonna take a look at your injuries. No more fighting. I'm all right." Sam was convinced that his brother's combativeness was concussion-fueled and spurred on by worry—and terror—for him.

Under Sam's hand, the older Winchester's clenched fingers relaxed and fell open.

He looked at the doctor with wide puppy dog eyes in place. "Can you take them off now? He won't fight you anymore."

Dr. Daniel Beck gazed first at the tall young man whose longish hair was falling into his red-rimmed hazel eyes and then down at his patient, weighing the truth of the words. He let go of the arm he'd been holding and nodded for the others to do the same. "Undo the restraints too."

On the other side of the exam table, Sam quietly said, "Dean, I'm going to step back so they can do their work." Sam tightened his hold for a second and then let go, preparing to do just as he'd said. Before he could step away, however, Dean's hand fisted in his shirt and he saw the older man struggle to partially sit up.

"S-S-Sammy, I … I …"

The stress and strain of confusion, terror, grief, and fight finally caught up with Dean and his abused body. His remaining words were lost as his bloodshot eyes rolled up into his head and he slumped forward, his forehead coming to rest on Sam's injured arm.

TBC…